


I Keep What's Important

by YanzaDracan



Category: Actor RPF, Kane (Band), Leverage RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Comment Fic, Community: comment_fic, Established Relationship, Family, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Male Slash, Multi, Relationship(s), Song Lyrics, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 11:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5625736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YanzaDracan/pseuds/YanzaDracan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt - Kiss</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Keep What's Important

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I don't own them. They belong only to themselves. This is a figment of my imagination and a work of fiction. I'm not making any money. Self -beta. Any typos are mine.  
>  **Author's Note:** Lyrics from _Where My River Flows_ \- Steve Carlson  & Jensen Ackles. Originally posted on my LJ.

When Steve walked into the living room, Jensen looked up from where he was sprawled on their overstuffed sofa. Steve was attempting to balance a cardboard box and a beer. Jensen laid his guitar to the side and grabbed his bottle off the coffee table in case Steve's juggling collapsed into a wet, smelly heap. He cocked his head to the side, questioning the blond.

“What!?” The musician glowered at the unspoken question. 

Green eyes sparkled with mirth. 

“I am not a pack rat, Ackles. I throw things away.” Steve groused and started digging into the ravaged pictures and papers.

“How many years since the flood at your old place?” Jensen fought not to snicker. 

He just couldn’t resist teasing the singer about his tendency to save things, but he really wanted to stay on Carlson’s good side until he left Los Angeles. Christian could almost match Steve's talent in the kitchen, but he was still in Nashville. So Jensen better ‘kiss the cook’, not piss him off. Soon enough he’d be back to eating his and Jared’s cooking.

The room went quiet when Steve started telling stories behind the pictures and papers as he sorted the water stained layers. His hair shielded his face as he ran callused fingertips reverently over one of the photos.

“Remember this?” He asked quietly handing Jensen a picture.

“Yeah, it was what … Six months after I finally got you and Christian together, away from that messenger place you worked.” Jensen answered in the same quiet tone. 

He handed the picture back. He couldn’t remember where they were, but he remembered feeling pole-axed the first time he saw the picture, and what the three faces in the photo revealed. After that they all worked diligently to keep what was important.

He reached for the pad lying next to his guitar, as Steve continued his stories.

I saw a photograph of you  
Somebody made you laugh into their lens  
And it tends to make me wonder  
About the times that I would smile with you  
The times it seems I’ll never find again  
And they always leave me thinking of you

His train of thought was interrupted when Steve stood up and grabbed the pile too damaged to salvage.

“Hey Jen, wanna another?” He motioned toward the empty bottle.

“Sure, I’ll put this back with the other boxes you aren’t hoarding.” He called out.

“I heard that!” The musician yelled from the kitchen.

“Steve, why is your dobro …?” His question cut-off when he saw Steve with his pad. Doubts clouded green eyes. “Ummm … I was just foolin’ around …”

“No this is …” Steve snatched up the pencil. “What’s ya got?” He looked from the paper to the guitar case in Jensen’s hands.

“Your dobro. It was in the garage.” Jensen stuttered a little.

“Dammit! How’d that happen?” He reached for the case and snapped the latches, fingers running over the guitar, checking for damage. Satisfied, he set it next to Jensen’s and picked up the pad he dropped, and started to scribble.

Several hours later, blue/gray eyes blinked owlishly adjusting from the dark outside to the light inside. They came to rest on the brown and blond heads bent together over guitars and sheet music. The dark haired man set his duffle and guitar on the floor quietly, and pulled off his boots. 

Nashville had been its usual dog and pony show, the record company giving him the shuck and jive, but thanks to his management team, they’d found other resources. He closed his eyes for a minute and let the haunting melody that Steve was teasing from his dobro soothe his tired soul.

The past year had been a bitch. Their professional lives were going gangbusters, TV series, movies, albums … It seemed the world was their oyster. But, to the three men in the room, it sucked. 

There was not enough ‘them’. Too many voices trying to coordinate schedules, too may quarrels and silences, too many airplanes, and too many miles. Now … Now they were all here, and here was what truly mattered.

He walked silently into the living room. Guitars were quickly set aside as the occupants of the room rushed the intruder.

Three sets of arms locked around three bodies, and two sets of lips breathed, “Christian" and three sets of lips met.

~Fini~


End file.
